‘All right.’ Breck stood, draining the last of his coffee. ‘Let’s do it. Interview Room Three is set up. I’ll observe from the monitoring room, but I’ll step in if needed.’
Twenty minutes later, Brodie entered Interview Room Three with Art McKenzie at his side. The room was deliberately uncomfortable – harsh fluorescent lighting, a metal table bolted to the floor, chairs that were just slightly too small for comfort. The walls were painted an institutional beige that seemed designed to sap the will to live.
Thomas Mitchell sat on the far side of the table, his solicitor beside him. Mitchell was in his sixties, Brodie estimated, with grey hair thinning on top and the slight paunch of a man who’d spent his life bending over coffins and examination tables. His face was lined and weathered, his hands clasped on the table in front of him. He wore the same clothes he’d been arrested in – dark trousers, a white shirt now wrinkled and stained with sweat.
Richard Crawford, by contrast, looked like he’d stepped outof a boardroom. Expensive suit, silk tie, briefcase positioned precisely beside his chair. He looked up as Brodie and Art entered, his expression neutral but his eyes sharp.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Brodie,’ Crawford said. ‘I trust my client will be treated appropriately during this interview?’
‘Your client will be treated exactly as the law requires,’ Brodie said, settling into his chair.Why? Did you think we were going to use a fucking hosepipe on him, he thought, but kept the sarcasm to himself.
Art sat beside him, arranging files on the table with deliberate care, then he activated the recording equipment, stating the date, time and persons present. ‘Interview with Thomas Mitchell, conducted by DCI Liam Brodie and DI Art McKenzie. Mr Mitchell is accompanied by his solicitor, Richard Crawford.’
‘Mr Mitchell, I’m going to ask you some questions about your business, about the warehouse facility in Perth, and about items found during our search of those premises. You understand you’re still under caution?’
Mitchell nodded, his throat working. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot from lack of sleep.
‘For the recording, Mr Mitchell has indicated his understanding.’
Brodie opened the first file, pulling out photographs of the brass memorial plates. He arranged them on the table, facing Mitchell, three images in a row. The engraved names were clearly visible: Sarah Morrison, Jennifer Walsh, Lisa Patterson.
‘Do you recognise these items, Mr Mitchell?’
Mitchell stared at the photographs, his face draining of colour. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
‘My client has never seen those items before,’ Crawford said smoothly. ‘If they were found on property associated withMitchell and Son, they were placed there without his knowledge or consent.’
‘Really?’ Brodie leaned forward. ‘Because these aren’t just random pieces of brass, Mr Crawford. These are coffin plates. Memorial plates of the sort used in the funeral industry. And they bear the names of three murder victims. All were killed seven years ago by a serial murderer the press called The Embalmer.’
Mitchell’s breathing had become audible, rapid and shallow.
‘Your client is in the funeral business,’ Brodie continued, his eyes locked on Mitchell. ‘He has the equipment to make these plates and the expertise to engrave them properly. And they were found in a warehouse facility that he owns and operates. So I’ll ask again – do you recognise these items?’
‘I…’ Mitchell’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. ‘I’ve never seen them before. I don’t know how they got there.’
‘How long have you been operating the Perth warehouse facility?’
‘About twenty years. We needed overflow storage, space for preparation when the main facility was busy.’
‘And who has access to that warehouse?’
‘My son Barry. Myself. A few trusted employees who help with transport and preparation.’
‘No one else?’ Art asked, pulling out another file. ‘No freelance technicians? No consultants? No one who might have used the facility for purposes other than legitimate funeral business?’
Mitchell’s hands tightened on the table. ‘No. Just us.’
Crawford interjected. ‘My client is willing to cooperate fully, detective chief inspector. However, I must note that if you’re attempting to build a case that suggests Mr Mitchell is somehow involved in these historic murders, you’re on very shaky ground.My client has alibis for relevant periods, and there’s no forensic evidence connecting him to any crime scene.’
Brodie pulled out another photograph, which showed the preparation room in the warehouse – the stainless steel tables, the drainage channels and the cabinets full of embalming chemicals. ‘I’m suggesting he provided the facility where the murders were staged. That he knowingly allowed someone to use his warehouse as a workshop for killing.’
‘That’s absurd,’ Crawford said, but Mitchell made a slight sound, almost a whimper.
‘Is it?’ Brodie pulled out more photographs – victim photos, crime scenes. ‘These are the three young women who had their blood drained out of them and displayed on a beach like pieces of meat. We think they were murdered in your facility, either by you or your son.’
Mitchell was shaking now, his eyes darting between the photographs and his solicitor’s face.
‘My client runs a legitimate funeral business?—’
